Page 12

Ilya could sense Valentina’s restlessness. He felt it in the way she moved around the cabin, her footsteps light but aimless, as if she didn’t quite know what to do with herself.

He caught it in the way her fingers drummed against the edge of the counter or fiddled with the hem of her shirt while her unfocused gaze stayed on the small TV. It was in the way her gaze lingered too long on the windows, her thoughts clearly somewhere els e? somewhere far from him and this secluded mountain lodge.

For reasons he didn’t entirely understand, her unease bothered him. She was a caged bird, and though he knew he’d put her there for her own safety, it didn’t make the sight of her any easier to stomach.

He knew she needed some compan y? and his was the worst thing he could offer. He knew she desired to speak with her family and friends, but he also knew she had too much pride to ask him for his phone. He knew she’d rather drown in misery than ask him for his help. And he hated it more than anything.

After watching her pace the length of the cabin for what felt like the tenth time that evening, he sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. “Here,” he said, stepping into her line of sight and holding it out to her.

Valentina blinked, clearly startled. “What?”

“Call your family,” he said, his voice devoid of its usual edge. “Your friends. Whoever. I don’t care. Just take the goddamn phone and sit still.”

Her eyes darted to the phone, then back to him. He could see the relief in her eyes, like dark clouds drawing away, but there was still suspicion etched across her face. “Why are you being nice?”

He shrugged, unwilling to unpack his own reasoning. “Do you want it or not?”

Her hand shot out before he could retract the offer, tiny sparks of electricity buzzing beneath his skin from where their fingers brushed. She clutched the phone tightly, as if afraid he might change his mind. “Leave.”

He arched a brow. “What?”

“I need some privacy,” she said, already turning away from him. She turned back and frowned at him, shunning him with her hands. “ Go .”

A humorless scoff left him as he raised his hands in mock surrender. He backed away, retreating to the other side of the cabin, and gave her what she wanted. He busied himself with some meaningless tasks, tuning out the faint murmurs of her voice as she spoke to her family.

He could hear the tension slowly leave her tone, replaced by relief and a hint of warmth.

When she called Rhiannon and Irina, however, curiosity got the better of him. He wandered back into the living room, leaning casually against the doorway as she laughed at something one of them had said.

The sound caught him off guar d? bright and unrestrained, so different from the sharp, biting words she usually aimed at him.

She was seated on the couch, her knees tucked under her, the phone pressed to her ear as a genuine smile lit up her face. It was a sight that knocked the breath from his lungs before he could steel himself against it.

The sound of her laughter was a melody, sweet and unrestrained, ringing pleasantly in his ears and settling somewhere deep in his chest. He found himself wanting to hear more of it, to bask in the warmth it created in the otherwise tense atmosphere of the cabin.

Her chin rested lightly against her knees, the curve of her neck graceful as she tilted her head. One hand lazily ran through her chestnut hair, the strands catching the fading light streaming through the window. The gentle movement seemed unconscious, her fingers sifting through the silky waves and brushing them back over her shoulder.

The loose strands framed her face, softening the sharp edges of her expression, making her seem utterly unguarded for the first time since they’d arrived.

“You’re such a drama queen, Rhi,” Valentina teased, her voice light and affectionate. She laughed again, the sound brighter this time, unburdened, like she’d forgotten the weight of her circumstances just for a moment.

As the conversation continued, Ilya stayed silent, his feet rooted to the floor as he watched her from his spot by the doorway. That smil e? effortless, radian t? was a punch to his guts. She hadn’t smiled like that for him. Not once. Not ever.

And it bothered him more than it should have.

A muscle in his jaw ticked as he watched. She was still unaware of his presence at the door―or maybe she was and chose to ignore him. It didn’t matter. What was undeniable was the joy on her face as she laughed with her friends, a kind of warmth he hadn’t seen her extend toward him in weeks. She saved her bitterness for him, as though he were the only one worthy of it.

It was just a passing thought, he told himself. But why did that realization leave a sour taste in his mouth? Why, when he looked at the brightness in her smile, did he crave it for himself? And why did his chest tighten when she finally said her goodbyes and turned, catching his gaze?

“Thanks,” she said, the awkwardness in her tone a contrast to the lingering warmth from her conversation. “I needed that.”

Ilya leaned away from the doorframe, his mind a mess of fractured thoughts, all orbiting her at the center. “Have dinner with me.”

Her brow shot up as she dropped her legs to the floor, her skeptical expression almost enough to make him smirk. “Um―”

“Consider it a temporary truce,” he cut in, stepping closer. “I'll let you call your family. The least you can do is join me for dinner. I told you I don’t do favors for free, didn’t I?”

Valentina scoffed, the retort clear in her eyes, but she held back, surprising him. She didn’t bite, didn’t lash out, and he had no idea what to make of it.

She shrugged, masking herself with a syrupy-sweet smile as she slapped his phone into his palm. Tiny sparks shot through his hand at the contact, fleeting but sharp enough to make him hesitate. Neither of them addressed it.

“Fine,” she said, the sweetness in her tone bordering on condescending. “We’ll have dinner.”

An hour and thirty minutes later, they sat across from each other at the old kitchen table, the orange glow of the overhead light painting their faces in a soft warmth. The air was rich with the mingling aromas of freshly baked lasagna and the tangy sweetness of a Caprese salad―bright tomatoes layered with slices of mozzarella and fresh basil leaves. A small dish of garlic butter shrimp sat between them, its fragrant oil catching the light.

The lasagna sat at the center of the table, a little uneven around the edges, its golden crust glistening under the kitchen light. It smelled incredible―layers of rich meat sauce, creamy bechamel, and pasta blending into something comforting yet profound.

Valentina had insisted on preparing it herself, brushing off his offers of help with a muttered: “Just stay out of the way”. Now, as it sat between them, Ilya couldn’t help but glance at her.

Valentina was pretending to focus on her plate, cutting into her own slice of lasagna with an air of nonchalance. But he caught the way her eyes flicked up to him as he lifted his fork, the tension in her shoulders betraying her. She looked almost nervous, though she was doing her best to hide it.

It clicked for him then―this wasn’t just dinner. There was something personal about this dish, something significant, just like the pendant around her neck that he hadn’t noticed before. She had gone back to change before dinner and returned with the jewel around her neck, like she needed it to cook.

When he cut into it, the layers held together perfectly, the cheese stretching as he brought it to his mouth. The flavor was immediate, comforting. Simple, yet complex at the same time. He chewed slowly, deliberately, like he was trying to savor the taste.

Valentina didn’t meet his gaze, too focused on scooping salad onto her plate. “Well? Say something,” she said, her voice lighter than usual but still guarded.

“It’s good,” he said, his tone neutral at first, teasing even, but when he looked at her again― really looked at her―the slight insecure edge in her voice when she asked, “ Are you sure? ” made him pause. He could see it now, how much she cared, how much this mattered.

“It’s not just good,” he added, his voice softer, earnest. “It’s perfect.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, he thought she didn’t believe him. Then, almost imperceptibly, her shoulders relaxed, and her mouth curved into something between relief and the faintest smile.

Ilya was curious, though. He didn’t know her as the type to seek validation for her actions, so this surprised him. But her next words made him understand why.

“It was my mom’s recipe,” she admitted, her tone light but laced with something fragile. Something he’d never heard in her voice before. He sat up straighter, watching as she clutched the silver heart pendant and rubbed her thumb over it. It all made sense now.

“It’s the first time I’ve ever tried making it myself,” she continued. “I’m always scared to mess it up, and the chefs at home never get it right. It’s… one of the last memories I have of her.”

For a split second, Ilya froze, unsure of what to do or how to act. She said it so casually, like she hadn’t just peeled back a layer of herself and handed it to him. He was certain she didn’t even realize what she’d done. And yet, as the words settled between them, he felt a warmth bloom in his chest, a strange kind of ache he couldn’t name.

He didn’t want to ruin this―whatever this was―but he also didn’t want to make it obvious he was treading so carefully. Moments like this didn’t happen often with her, and he wasn’t about to let it slip through his fingers.

Leaning back slightly, he studied her as she focused on her plate, cutting into the lasagna like she hadn’t just opened a door he hadn’t expected her to. “She’d be proud,” he said, his voice steady but soft, hoping it was enough.

She didn’t look up, but the way her fingers tightened slightly around her fork told him she’d heard him. For a moment, the silence stretched. Then she took a bite of shrimp and met his gaze across the table.

“Where did you learn how to cook?” she asked, her tone feigning nonchalance, though he caught the flicker of curiosity in her eyes.

Ilya tilted his head, smirking faintly. “Is this your way of admitting it tastes good?”

Valentina rolled her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. It just tastes decent enough for me to be curious.”

“My brothers,” Ilya replied, pouring himself a glass of water. “Fedya, to be specific. He taught everyone how to cook.”

Val’s brows lifted, and she couldn’t keep the amused smile from spreading across her face. “Fedya? Well, that’s… unexpected.”

“Why?”

“Fedya’s always so quiet and reserved. It took him forever to warm up to me―unlike Viktor and Kostya. Didn’t think he had it in him.”

Ilya smiled a little as he took a bite of shrimp. She wasn’t wrong. Fedya was the quietest of the five siblings, often blending into the background with his calm demeanor. But what most people didn’t realize was that Fedya had a streak of twisted humor, the kind that could catch even his brothers off guard. Ilya didn’t bother explaining that, though; it was always more fun to let people figure it out for themselves.

Valentina shook her head, her tone light as she went on. “I like your siblings. It’s kind of a relief that they’re not all grade-A assholes like you.”

Ilya rolled his eyes, a sarcastic smile tugging at his lips. “Glad I can set the bar.”

“Seriously, though,” she said, swallowing her food. “Your family’s… nice. A little overwhelming, maybe, but nice.” She hesitated, her gaze dropping to her plate before adding, “It’s a little different from mine.”

He watched her closely. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” she began, twirling her fork between her fingers as she stared ahead, “my siblings aren’t as bad as Rhiannon’s―hers are practically insane―but I’m the youngest, so I’m constantly babied. It doesn’t matter how old I am. To them, I’m still the little kid who couldn’t keep up.”

Ilya stayed quiet, his eyes lingering on her. She said it so casually on the surface, but there was just enough edge in her voice to hint at a deeper frustration.

“And it’s not like they mean any harm or that they don’t believe in me or anything like that,” she added, almost absently. “But sometimes… it’s exhausting.”

Her voice softened at the end, and Ilya resisted the urge to say anything. Instead, he took a slow sip of water, giving her room to speak if she wanted.

For a moment, she didn’t. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint clink of her fork against the plate. When she finally looked up at him, there was a flicker of something in her eyes―guarded but not completely closed off. But he could see the frost starting to harden, and he nodded, finally speaking.

“I get it.”

Val scoffed, a wry smile appearing on her lips. “Yeah, right. You’re the oldest of your siblings. There’s nothing relatable.”

Ilya glanced back at his plate, his grip tightening slightly on the edge of his fork. The words came before he could stop them, like a dam finally giving way under the pressure.

“Maybe not,” he started, his voice low. “But being the oldest doesn’t mean you’re untouchable. Especially when you’re a Nikolai cousin .”

She blinked, the casual defiance on her face softening a fraction into curiosity as he continued.

“People look down their noses at us, waiting for me, Kostya, for any of us, to screw up. Doesn’t matter how much we do right―they’ll always see us as second-class Nikolais. Not good enough to carry the name but still expected to uphold the weight of it.”

His tone wasn’t bitter. It was bland, like he was reading alphabets off a chalkboard. But if you listened closely, you could almost catch the quiet anger he usually kept hidden, wrapped around his words. He set his fork down, the metallic clink against the plate sharper than he intended.

“They don’t say it outright, of course,” he added, leaning back in his chair, “but you can see it in the way they talk to you. The way they act like we’re charity cases who should be grateful just to be in the room.”

Valentina didn’t say anything right away, her gaze fixed on him now, more intent than he was used to. It was like that night all over again, the one where she spotted the injury on his neck and showed concern, only for him to lash out at her. He was an asshole to her that night, more fiercely than usual, and if he hadn’t behaved the way he did, she wouldn’t have had any reason to storm out of the party early only to be a near-victim of an ambush that would have taken her life.

So, as much as he regretted opening up like this, he didn’t try to take it back. He simply bit his tongue and kept quiet.

“Is that why you’re such an asshole?” she asked after a beat, though her tone lacked the usual bite.

A humorless smile graced his face. “Maybe. Hard to say. Might just be my stellar personality.”

She tilted her head slightly, studying him in a way that made his skin prickle. “Must be exhausting,” she said softly.

Ilya raised an eyebrow, not expecting that. “What?”

“Carrying that around. Always feeling like you have something to prove.” Her voice wasn’t mocking, wasn’t pitying―it was matter-of-fact, and that unsettled him more than anything. “It reminds me of my brother, Enrico. He’s the oldest, just like you. Always so serious and grumpy. People think he’s scary, but I just think he has too many responsibilities on his shoulders to be frivolous.”

Ilya’s lips twitched at the comparison, though he couldn’t decide if he found it amusing or frustrating. “Is that your way of saying I’m grumpy and scary?”

Her eyes sparkled faintly with humor, but her tone remained serious. “I’m saying maybe you’re more like him than you realize. Enrico always says he’s fine, that he’s ‘used to it’. But he’s not. No one really gets used to it.”

Ilya stabbed at the lasagna on his plate, turning her words over in his head. “You learn to carry it,” he said after a moment, his tone even. “That’s what you get used to. Doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

Valentina leaned back in her chair, watching him carefully as though seeing a side of him she hadn’t seen before. “And does carrying it ever get lighter?”

He looked up, meeting her gaze across the table. For once, he didn’t have a quick answer. Instead, he offered the faintest shrug. “Depends on the day.”

A beat of silence passed between them, the words lingering in the air. Then Valentina picked up her fork again, her tone lightening as she muttered, “You and Enrico really are the same. I don’t know whether to feel bad for him or for you.”

A reluctant smile tugged at Ilya’s lips. “Feel bad for him. He’s stuck with you as a sister.”

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the tiniest smile she tried to hide behind her fork. For the first time since the whole ambush escapade, the tension between them seemed to ease.

He realized there and then that he hadn’t opened up to anyone like this, not even to his brothers. As much as he didn’t want to overanalyze the situation, it struck something within him and lingered there like an unwanted ember, stubbornly refusing to burn out.